thearena | We're a long, long way from home.

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We're a long, long way from home.

WHO| Wyatt and Howard
WHERE| First Floor, "Theodorus Roosevelar" Exhibit
WHAT| Reuniting at last... also robbing a president of everything but his draws.
WHEN| Week 2 sometime
Warnings/Notes| None!

The longer it took Wyatt to find Howard, the more worried he became. He knew the boy was alive, as he hadn't heard his name in the roll at the end of the day, but nothing else. Not if he was hurt, not if he was hungry or cold... Aunamee might even have found him again, for all Wyatt had seen of that murdering bastard.

It stuck, painfully, in his jaw - like a burr beneath his skin, a spur between his bones - as he lay awake in the dark, listening to the arena, Aunamee's threats a low echo in his ears.

Killing me now will only guarantee that I'll be back for them.

Wyatt had promised Howard, and even knowing what finding him would mean - that it would only guarantee his own fate - he had to keep trying.

He went up first, past more bones, under shining stars, through the warm beams of sunlight, but the boy was nowhere to be found. So back down he went into the dark and cold, trying to think like Howard and then like Aunamee by turns. (Where would he hide?)

Now, he was on the first floor, if the large number in the stairwell was anything to go by. Around the desks with nothing to offer but papers and dust, smudged from where someone's hands had already rifled along, and down into the dip in the floor.

Across to the bench and the silent sentry. A distinguished man of bronze, a pair of spectacles perched on his wide nose, a full, handsome mustache arching over his sternly-set mouth.

They regarded each other in the quiet, Wyatt leaning in to meet the unblinking stare, wondering who he was, to receive such fine treatment from the Capitol.

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Wyatt's worrying has been, for the most part, in vain. Howard's been doing much better for himself this Arena than last, and excluding some pockmarks from burns on his feet and the back of his hands, is entirely uninjured. It's something of a miracle, as far as he's concerned. All he has to show for it is judicious application of Iskierka band-aids.

For the moment, he's been sleeping in one of the junked cars in the parking lot. Curled up under a blanket, he's nearly invisible in the back seat. It's a good hiding spot and certainly warm enough, and the lot is generally unoccupied.

He hasn't had a chance to properly explore the first floor, so he cracks open the stairwell door and sneaks in. He pauses for a good long time before moving into the main room proper, and he nearly fall over with relief to see that it's only Wyatt there.

"Hey," he whispers to Wyatt. The cavernous room seems to amplify his voice and he flinches.

Wyatt heard the footsteps a heartbeat before the voice. He was already turning, grip in the heavy crowbar tightening, the length of metal raising--

Only to drop in utter relief.

"Howard. Thank Jesus." He didn't hesitate, ignoring the echo in the room - what it could mean if anyone was out there listening - and crossed to the boy to pull him into a one-armed hug. His need to know Howard was real and one piece overriding his usual care to keep a respectful distance. "I've been lookin' all over hell's half-acre for ya."

He pulled back, looked him over. "Ya alright?"

Howard lets Wyatt hug him - Wyatt's one of the few people who can get away with it. He's as happy for the contact as Wyatt it, and he presses his face to Wyatt's chest as if remembering there's a heartbeat in there.

"Yeah, I'm great. I been hiding in the vents. It's cramped but only a few people can get in there." He squeezes Wyatt around the waist before letting go. "Ellie's okay, too."

Wyatt still studied him a moment longer, eyes sweeping up and down, noting the bright red bandages on his hands and feet... but the boy was right, he seemed to okay. He noticeably relaxed, tension easing out of his shoulders and jaw.

"I know, I've seen her about. She found that friend'a hers, Joel." And was, as far as Wyatt could tell in the few moments he'd spent with the man, in good hands. The bond there seemed strong. Safe.

Nodding, he squeezed Howard's shoulder. "I'm glad yer alright. I was startin' worry that--" he broke off, forcing himself to put it aside. It hadn't happened, so there was no reason to hang onto it.

Instead he smiled gently and squeezed again. "Never mind that. Ya alright with supplies? I got plenty to share."

"Haven't met Joel." Something in Howard's eyes darkens, like his brain's going dead inside. "Haven't run into Aunamee, either. I saw him go for Orc at the Cornucopia but I was-"

He takes a deep breath. It hadn't really been a decision. It was the Cornucopia, things were crazy and he had his kit and he needed to get out of there as soon as possible, and Orc was always good at defending himself...

And yet he still feels like he abandoned a friend.

He hasn't heard either name on the intercom.

"Yeah. Supplies aren't the problem this Arena, you know?"

Another squeeze, in understanding, trying to ease the look that appeared on Howard's face at the mention of Aunamee and Orc. Wyatt knew all too well that how easy it was to lose track of someone at the Cornucopia; and how easier still it was to blame oneself.

"Seems an alright kind'a fella," he said, happy to let the subject rest. "Reminds me'a Max a bit to be honest." Focused, determined. Dedicated.

It made him miss the man all the more, thinking of it - as glad as he was that the Roman was safe back in the Capitol.

"...So, vents is it?" He looked up, eyeing a grate high on the far wall. "Somehow I don't reckon there's space enough for the likes'a me."

Howard opens his mouth to say something, then pauses. He'd say Orc's a good person but he isn't sure. He'd say Orc's smart, but that's a lie. "He's my friend."

Some days Howard isn't sure of that either.

"I also been in a car in the lot. It's easy to hide when you get a blanket over you and stuff. You can come too."

He looks at Wyatt like please?

Wyatt arched an eyebrow. He'd been talking about Joel, but Howard's statement didn't follow. The boy had already said he hadn't met the man....

Giving a mental shrug, he let it lie and moved on to the important question.

"There room enough?" he asked, recalling his brief encounter with the machines during his frantic escape from the Cornucopia, weaving in and out of the sleek, metal bodies. He'd ridden in one before, thanks to the Capitol, but had never tried all but living in one. "Even if it ain't," he added, watching Howard's face. "I'll keep close. I ain't got any plans on goin' anywhere now."

His whole goal was finding him, and helping him, just as he'd promised.

"Yeah, the back is pretty roomy, and the windows are tinted. Pull a blanket over yourself and no one will notice you're there. The only problem is the noise."

Everything echoes down on the lot, and it's not a problem when you're by yourself, but it can be a bit of an issue for a duo.

"You got any allies this go round?"

He thought of everyone he'd run into - Doc, and Ian, Ellie and Joel, Shepard - and slowly shook his head.

"There's folks I ain't got any interest in hurtin'," he admitted. "An' I got somethin' of a deal workin' with Shepard, but I promised to help ya, Howard, as best as I can."

So here he was, alone.

"Really?"

Howard winces almost as he says it - he doesn't mean to distrust Wyatt, and he knows, he knows he has no reason to. But he's so used to withdrawing like an anemone that anyone reaching out to him that it's still coded into his instincts.

"You done more of these than I have. I won't blame you if..."

He can't ask Wyatt to make the same sacrifice Wyatt made for Max. Not twice.

Wyatt exhaled, a long, heavy breathe, eyes moving slowly over Howard's face.

"This is my eighth arena, my chances - I know they ain't good." He paused for another breath, steadying himself under the weight of it. "So it won't much make a difference. Tomorrow, er the next day, er there at the end. At least I can go out knowin' you'll be alright."

Or as close as he could get him.

"You got to the end twice. That's further'n I ever got." Howard bites his lip and decides something's better left unspoken - that he doubts the Capitol would let Wyatt be the second-place sacrifice one more time.

He starts to lead Wyatt to the stairwell. "You haven't been using the elevators, have you?"

Edited 2014-01-31 20:02 (UTC)

Howard didn't have to say it, Wyatt already knew. Unless he won himself a crown, he was a dead man.

But Howard needed it - Wyatt just... well, maybe it was for the best.

"My warrant may be signed," he said, falling in with him. "But I ain't stupid. Other than grabbin' supplies, I've been keepin' my distance."

Each word Wyatt says about a death warrant sounds like a footstep on the stairs to the gallows to Howard.

"Look, Wyatt..." He grinds his teeth together as he picks the lock on the door open. He relocks it each time. "If I die again...and I come back and I'm still, you know, here."

He gestures at his head. "I'm going to petition out. So you don't got to worry about taking the last spot."

And if he didn't, or wasn't, Wyatt would never forgive himself and it would as if they both died here anyway.

"Let's worry 'bout that we get there, alright?" he murmured, exhaling through his nose, looking away as Howard fiddled with the doorknob. "We still go another seventy er eighty tributes to outlast."

Across the way, something caught his eye. A face behind spotted glass. A vaguely familiar face.

While Howard worked, he drifted over, rubbing a hand over the case.

Howard stops and follows Wyatt over, looking back and forth over his shoulders to make sure they're not leaving their backs open. He doesn't relock the door, but makes sure it's still close so as not to advertise that the stairwell has been compromised.

"What's that?"

It took a moment, the glass yellowed and grimy, and the face rather different in the flesh than in bronze, but he put it together.

"It's the fella on the bench, 'Theodorus Roosevelar...'" He leaned in, trying to read the print inside the case. The year - he pulled back, looking back at the statue. "Accordin' to this he lived not long after me."

"Betting that's how Panem thinks you say Teddy Roosevelt. He was president, you know." Howard honestly can't remember the differences between the Roosevelts, but then again, he spent all of history class sleeping, daydreaming, doodling or playing hookie.

"Mustaches were still in style, huh?"

"Son, those are always in style for men'a taste," Wyatt replied. It sounded like a joke, but was delivered deadpan. Before it could be picked at, he was moving on, rubbing at more of the glass, sweeping away dust and dirt to be able to see more.

"Hayes was president when they snatched me up."

Thirty years, according to the teeny print. Thirty years between himself and that man, perched on the bench a few yards away. (Would he have even lived to see it, had they not taken him?)

The thought made him feel - strange. For a moment like nothing more than the dust beneath his fingers.

"I never even learned about Hayes."

Howard quietly puts a hand around Wyatt's wrist. "Let's go. I don't like this floor. It creeps me out."

It's like the ribbons of the cattle-stall lines are going to trap them. There are too many exits and entrances. Sounds are too loud. Footsteps echoing from the second floor can be heard in the distance like traffic. It's too much.

Besides the photo of the older man in his stately presidential garb, was another. Roosevelt - as Howard called him - as a younger man in a deerskin jacket, holding a rifle. The gun was nowhere to be seen, but the jacket...

That was tacked up in the display case and Wyatt knew immediately that he wanted it, for practical and personal reasons.

He almost lifted the crowbar - but Howard's touch brought him back, reminding him where he was and that he had more important things to tend to.

He looked over and nodded, stepping back from the glass.

"Alright." He turned away from the display, focusing Howard again. "Let's go see this car'a yers."

"We can get the jacket later." Howard can't explain why he wants to get away so quickly now. He's found Wyatt, and all he wants to do is establish a base camp, assert to the whole world that he's safe and protected. "I'll get it for you later. Without the crowbar."

"It's alright, Howard."

Wyatt didn't understand the sudden urgency either, but he wasn't about to argue. At the end of the day, he'd found the only thing that really mattered.

"I'm comin'."

As if to proof it, he stowed the crowbar and took a step toward the stairwell.

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We're a long, long way from home.

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